A Rational Proposal (Furze House Irregulars Book 1)(58)

The last deal of the rubber. Outwardly languid, Eastwick’s eyes were taking note of every card he dealt, spreading the twos and threes in order to see the tiny details on the corner curlicues. Charles watched him stolidly, his attention sharpening as small beads of sweat broke out on his opponent’s brow. Eastwick laid down the talon. As his eyes fell on the back of the topmost card, his lips moved soundlessly in a curse.

Charles picked up his cards in silence. Just a glimpse showed him the reason for Eastwick’s despair. It was a well-nigh perfect hand. It only needed the addition of the Jack of clubs and the Ace of diamonds to give him a repique and a capot to boot. A flickering glance told him the top card on the talon was indeed the missing club honour. There was no way he could throw this hand. He exchanged his minor cards, watched Eastwick exchange his, and saw ruin sit down next to his enemy.

This was it. Charles didn’t have the leisure of another rubber to plan his moves. He was going to have to act the moment he won the bet. At his shoulder, he heard Adam take a long breath.

“Point of seven,” he said.

“Good,” replied Eastwick, his voice remote.

“Septième.”

“Good.”

“Quatorze of aces.”

A ripple went around the room.

Eastwick leaned back. “Good,” he said.

As Charles took trick after trick he tried to guess which way Eastwick would jump. He laid down the last one, claimed the rubber, the game and the win.

Led by Adam, the spectators stirred, claiming their own side-bets off each other. Adam himself stretched and ambled around the table.

It was time to act. “I made an interesting acquaintance the other day,” Charles said casually. “Two interesting acquaintances, to be accurate.”

“The devil you did,” replied Eastwick. His eyes flicked to a couple of people behind Charles.

Charles drew Verity closer to him. “Yes indeed. Two ladies who had been made homeless when their building in Hart Street was set on fire whilst they and their fellow residents were inside.”

He had Eastwick’s attention now, the charm long gone, his face a mask of calculation. “What of it?”

Charles’s words fell like an executioner’s blade. “Both of them had been lured to London with promises of marriage. Both of them had been sold into prostitution. The gentleman in both cases was you. I am arresting you for...”

Eastwick gave a feral cry and stood up at the exact moment when Adam pinioned his arms to his sides. “Smith,” he yelled, struggling to no avail.

Charles laughed at the vindictive punch with which Lieutenant Crisp felled the bully who had laid him out earlier. “I suggest, gentlemen,” he said, raising his voice to address the company, “that you all go back to your tables, or find yourselves elsewhere. Captain Eastwick, alias Mr Weston, alias Mr North, has a pressing appointment at Bow Street. Lieutenant Crisp, I wonder if you would be kind enough to relieve the captain of his pistol and a particularly nasty clasp-knife. It would not surprise me if there were other weapons on his person.”

All the time he was talking, he had kept Verity next to him. A desperate litany in his head was praying that Eastwick would stay in a state of shock for long enough to get him to the rotation house several streets away. Two handkerchiefs did to tie the man’s wrists together. Strong as he was, Adam couldn’t keep him immobile all the way there.

Eastwick twisted and cursed, but not as much as Charles had expected. Perhaps - with the bet lost and no hope of raising what he owed - being publicly committed for trial was the better option, because then he wouldn’t have to face his creditor.

They pushed through the doorway, through the alley that was blessedly unguarded and Charles called down further blessings on the coal merchant’s son’s head. Not only was the boy’s father in the street outside with his cart, some three or four of the other men Charles had helped over the years had added themselves to the crowd of onlookers. There were also several hackney cabs, the drivers peering across the heads of the small throng. The news had evidently spread faster than fire in a tinder-dry summer.

Afterwards, he admitted he lost concentration for a few crucial seconds. The strain of keeping up the facade, of playing a game of piquet on which his and Verity’s lives depended, had taken effect. As they pushed through the crowd to the cart, Eastwick staggered in front of him and went down.

“It’s a trick,” Charles shouted at once. “Stay back.”

But it wasn’t. As people drew away from the fallen man like ripples retreating from a thrown pebble, a pool of red was seen to stain Eastwick’s clothing. Verity gasped and ran to him. She bent her head to his, laying her hand on his chest, then looked up at Charles, stricken. “He... he is dead.”

Verity didn’t know what made her do it. Kitty’s husband was a loathsome man, selfish and unprincipled, but the sight of him sprawled unmoving in the road had propelled her forward. She laid a tentative hand on his waistcoat and bent her cheek to his mouth to see if she could detect a breath.

Simon Eastwick’s laboured whisper shuddered into her soul. “Kit’s book. Get him.”

She jerked away in shock and saw his eyes glaze. She almost felt his life-force depart. “He... he is dead,” she said, scrambling to her feet and backing away. The gash in her side made her gasp in pain. She put a hand to it and then instinctively looked down at the blood seeping from Eastwick’s back on to the ground.